


All in a Day's Work

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Acting, M/M, Roleplay, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The work doesn't stop just because they get a day off. Reese tags along while Finch does some maintenance to his cover identities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in a Day's Work

**Author's Note:**

> Season 2-ish

That morning, John arrives at the library just as Harold is gearing up to leave.

“Nothing on the docket today, Finch?” John asks, holding out the to-go cup of sencha green tea once Finch has his scarf settled to his liking.

“A simple property dispute,” Finch says. It’s their code for the fairly mundane crimes involving inheritances, life insurance, theft, and the like that crop up quite regularly. “Detective Carter was working a night shift and generously provided assistance. And with the weather the way it is, I suspect our load will be light for the day.”

John glances at the tall window beyond Finch’s desk. The rain drums a steady cacophony on the panes. “What’s the plan for today? Cafe? Movie?”

“I thought I’d do some maintenance on my more high profile covers. A bit of hacking and coding will suffice for most, but the old boy’s club prefers face-to-face dealings. The better to flaunt one’s wealth, I suppose.”

John helps Finch into his thick overcoat. It’s dry, same as Finch’s shoes and trousers. John’s own are wet despite his best efforts. “Mind if I tag along?”

Finch gives him a brisk once-over. “Not dressed like that, certainly. Your suit from the Saunders case should still fit. It’s hanging up in the restroom.”

John grins. Finch predicting his actions and choices used to make him feel like a rat in a maze. Now it tickles him pink. “Be right back.”

Sure enough, the suit is right where Finch said it would be, freshly pressed and matched with a shirt and subtly patterned plum tie. There are even shoes and socks. A closely tailored overcoat hangs on a stall door.

Finch goes right for the throat when John emerges, freshly re-dressed. He picks apart the tie with quick motions and begins retying it into a different knot. 

“The Eldredge Knot,” Finch says, looping the end around. His fingers are warm even through the fabric of John’s shirt. “Not a traditionally professional knot, but as Mr. Partridge and Mr. Crane’s assistant, your presence is more decorative than functional.”

John smirks. “Is that why we match?” he asks, nudging Finch’s coat aside to reveal his plum waistcoat.

Finch tucks the end of the tie in and pulls John’s collar down, centering the layered knot. 

“If you would rather we didn’t, I could send you to take a few classes on investment and asset management and you could be a functional assistant rather than a decorative one.”

John leans in. “Not gonna share the tricks of the trade with your devoted assistant?”

Finch steps back, pressing a large umbrella into John’s chest. His expression is cool and immaculately collected. “Not and still have time to complete the day’s schedule, Mr. Rooney. Start the car, if you would.”

John Rooney’s head dips into a nod. “Sir.”

There’s a car out front, an unremarkable town car that wasn’t there when John arrived. He starts it up, then goes to fetch Mr. Partridge, holding the large umbrella up over their heads as he walks his employer to the car.

“Where to, sir?”

Mr. Partridge rattles off an address downtown. It’s for a software firm of some sort or another–the specifics escape Rooney–that Mr. Partridge has a mind to acquire. During the tour he steers the conversation to his liking with a subtle but firm hand, eking out little scraps of information from their CTO that he clearly hadn’t intended to reveal. By the time they sit down in the board room to negotiate, Partridge already has the upper hand.

Rooney spends the entire meeting at his employer’s right hand, silently exuding an air of smugness and understanding maybe one word in three of the proceedings. The firm’s CEO, introduced to Rooney as a Mr. Morgan Burrows, seems particularly unsettled by John. He takes ruthless advantage by making eye contact at strategic points during the meeting, throwing Burrows off his game enough times that his fellows break rank to glare at him.

Back in the car, after a terse goodbye from the firm’s executive team, Rooney asks, “Did we win?”

“Quite handily,” Mr. Partridge says. “Your presence was an unexpected boon. Perhaps I should bring you along more often.”

John’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel and he bites down on a smile. “Just say the word, sir.”

“Mr. Crane has a lunch meeting with the head of a charity. Your presence is not required at the table, though I do expect you to remain close.”

“Understood.”

Crane has a softer demeanor than Partridge; he greets Mr. Attano with a warm smile and a firm handshake. They discuss the city’s foster system at length, picking at their respective plates as they go page-by-page through a thick stack of documents. Proposals, grants, scholarship programs. Attano is quiet but passionate, and at the end of the lunch meeting Mr. Crane hands him a card and a check that makes Attano’s eyebrows dart to his hairline.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” Mr. Crane asks as Rooney ushers him into the town car. The rain has slowed to a light patter, but dark, heavy clouds are already rolling in to bring a fresh deluge. 

“I did. Thank you, sir. Where to next?”

“To see a man about a building.”

Mr. Sokolov is a genius architect, according to the framed articles hung around the office. The office itself is a curious mixture of frosted glass and wood that defies Rooney’s admittedly limited understanding of interior design. The couches are damned uncomfortable though, and Rooney tracks the exits irritably as he curses the peculiarities of genius that led to him being abandoned in the reception area like a dog chained to a post in the backyard.

He’s probably a little transparent about his impatience when Sokolov emerges with Mr. Partridge, the architect’s expression equal parts disgruntled and resigned.

“I’ll have the concepts done by the thirtieth, though I really must protest that your specifications are quite limiting,” Sokolov grouses. Up close, Rooney can see that the scowl lines in his face are deeply carved.

Partridge smiles genially. “Form must follow function, unfortunately. Though I would not have begged for a meeting if I didn’t think you were uniquely capable of meeting my admittedly restricting requirements while also putting your own unique stamp on the project.”

Sokolov puffs up at the praise, and Rooney is familiar enough with genius to recognize one slipping into a creative fugue. 

“Naturally,” Sokolov says. “Good afternoon, Partridge.”

Sokolov turns away and disappears back into his office, a dismissal if there ever was one.

Mr. Partridge’s shoulders droop just slightly, a silent sigh huffing from his nose. John guides him out with a hand at the small of his back, and for once Mr. Partridge allows the gesture.

“A difficult man,” Partridge says, once they’re safely enclosed in the car. “An undisputed genius of his craft, but a terribly difficult man all the same.”

“Is there anywhere you need to be?” John asks.

“Not until the evening,” Partridge says. “A charity benefit. We’ll have to change beforehand.”

“What do you need?” John asks. He looks at his employer through the rear view mirror.

Harold looks back. John can see the tension around his eyes and mouth.

“What do you need?” John repeats.

Harold looks away and sinks into the seat. “A vanilla ice cream, I think. And a good book.”

John ducks his head, pleased. He knows just the place.

The rain is light downtown, but sheeting down in Fusco’s neighborhood. It’s a good thing they’re changing before Harold’s next engagement, because their shoes and hems get soaked in the few strides it takes to get from the car to the ice cream parlor.

The bell above the door rings loudly in the silence of the shop, the two girls behind the counter perking up from their boredom. John buys, tips them triple, and installs Harold at one of the tables before darting out to the second-hand bookstore next door.

The book itself is nothing special, a lightly worn paperback about ancient engineering and construction, but at the first touch of paper to Harold’s hands, all the tension seems to rush out of Harold’s shoulders.

“Thank you, John,” Harold says.

John’s toes curl in his wet shoes. He hides his smile in the act of cracking open his own book. “My pleasure, Harold.”

And so they while away the afternoon to the patter of rain and the background noise of the ice cream shop.

The rain has mostly cleared up by the evening, the umbrella successfully keeping them dry as they walk up the steps of the museum to the benefit. Mr. Crane is a guest of honor, the host of the benefit personally delivering champagne into their hands. Rooney hangs off Mr. Crane’s arm in his finest tuxedo, and leans in to whisper innocuous nothings into Crane’s ear whenever a fellow attendee eyes him, whether it’s with interest or disgust.

Crane is a doting abettor, pretending not to hear the scandalized society wives mutter, “Oh, I’m sure,” when Crane introduces John Rooney as his Asset Manager. John just smiles his most beatific smile.

They leave the benefit early, the champagne and exhaustion of the day wearing Crane down until he can’t prevent a wrinkle from forming between his brows. The sky is clear in places, the air freshly washed and sweetly humid.

Harold places his hand over where John’s is curled over his forearm.

“You were an excellent assistant today,” he says.

John smiles, shrugs. “I had an excellent boss. I _have_ an excellent boss.”

Harold’s gaze dips. John can see a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I think I’ll go home now.”

“Of course. I’ll bring the car around,” John says, loosening his grip on Harold’s arm.

Harold’s hand pins John’s, not letting it slide away. John stills.

“I think I’ll go home now,” Harold repeats, looking up at John with a steady, uncompromising stare. “And I think you’ll come home with me.”

John squeezes Harold’s arm, and Harold’s grip on John’s and tightens in return.

“Yes,” he says, leaning in. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Where's Bear? Bear's in the same place Bear always is when he's not in an episode. Out of sight, out of mind. (As in, he's not here because I forgot about him and couldn't figure out how to squeeze him in afterwards.)


End file.
